Chapter 27

TWENTY-SEVEN

Tuck slumped into the Tahoe, slamming the door behind him like a final verdict. His hands gripped the wheel, knuckles white with tension. The heavy exhale that followed didn’t do much to release the pressure building in his chest.

Hatch narrowed her eyes. She recognized that kind of tension—she’d seen it on men right before they broke or pulled the trigger. It was the edge, the line between control and chaos.

Her voice was low, steady, when she asked, "You good?"

Tuck’s eyes stayed locked on the house, its silhouette barely visible through the thick morning mist. "My son’s in there."

Hatch’s pulse quickened. "Why would your son be there?”

"I asked him to make sure the Evelyn and Chloe made it home safely after the shooting. He wasn’t home last night when I got back. Not out of the ordinary for him to meet up with some of his friends. Usually leaves a note or a text message," Tuck muttered, rubbing his temple. "I was too damn tired, crashed out on the couch when I got in. But without a doubt, that’s his Jeep parked on the backside of the house."

Hatch’s mind shifted gears, calculating. The dynamics had changed. This wasn’t just a sheriff trying to manage a hostage situation. He was a father with something to lose. Personal stakes like that could lead to bad decisions, dangerous moves.

The Tahoe rolled down the drive. Hatch kept scanning, eyes flicking over the tree line, cataloging potential threats. The wet ground from the overnight rain kept the air thick, heavy. Everything was on the verge of breaking.

"What’s the plan?" she asked, her voice cutting through the tense silence.

Tuck clenched his jaw, clearly wrestling with options. "I’m working on it."

Hatch didn’t have time for half-measures. "Drop me off," she said, glancing at him. "I’ll circle back on foot. Get the lay of the land. Maybe find a way inside."

Tuck whipped his gaze toward her. "Hell no. Not a chance."

"You know it's necessary." Hatch’s voice stayed level, but the urgency was undeniable. "Clock’s ticking for everyone in that house. Including your son."

Tuck's frustration flared, but Hatch leaned in, lowering her tone. "Remember when we talked about our Army days? This is my wheelhouse. This is why I’m here. You have to trust me."

Tuck’s eyes flicked to the scar that stretched across her right arm—a battlefield souvenir, proof that Hatch didn’t talk lightly about handling tough situations. He hesitated, despite the reluctance in every line of his face. "Fine. But no hero crap. You get in, you get out. I don’t want to be dragging you out of there."

Hatch’s eyes locked onto his. "Deal."

Tuck guided the Tahoe into a pull-off, the engine idling as it sat hidden in the shadow of the pines. He reached for the radio. "Calling in backup. Hopefully get the State boys involved, but we can’t wait on ‘em."

Hatch’s hand gripped the door handle, ready to slip out. But just as she was about to move, a pair of headlights cut through the mist. Two black SUVs barreled down the drive toward the Hartwell residence, tires chewing up gravel, engines roaring.

Her gut twisted. "Friends of yours?"

"No.” Tuck’s face darkened. His answer was low, but it hit like a punch. “And that’s a problem."

The air buzzed with tension, a charged undercurrent that mirrored the brewing storm outside. Evelyn stood by the window, her gaze fixed on the black SUVs rolling up her driveway. In the distance, a low rumble of thunder echoed. A tempest edged closer.

The lead vehicle’s door opened, and Beauregard Covington stepped out, immaculate in his white suit, a jarring, almost grotesque contrast to the rugged Hartwell property. A flash of lightning illuminated the scene, casting stark shadows across the yard and briefly etching his sharp, predatory features against the darkening sky. His calculating eyes swept the scene, devoid of warmth.

Evelyn’s pulse hammered in her chest. The storm wasn’t the only force closing in. Beside her, Bishop lay motionless on the couch, his breathing shallow but steady, the faint sound barely audible over the growing patter of rain against the roof.

Outside, the wind picked up, tugging at the loose branches of the pines lining the property. The sky flickered again, followed by another low growl of thunder, closer this time. Evelyn clenched her fists, grounding herself in the small, familiar space of her home, though nothing about this moment felt safe.

"Six men," Bishop muttered, his voice low. "Two by the cars, four with him. Armed."

Evelyn fixed her eyes on Covington as he adjusted his cuffs, a deliberate show of control. " He’s been circling the reservoir like a shark. My place is the last bit of land he hasn’t swallowed."

Bishop’s eyes narrowed. "Doesn’t look like the kind of man who’s used to hearing ‘no.’"

"He’s not."

Covington took a step forward, dusting off his pristine jacket before raking a hand through his slicked-back hair. His voice rang out, smooth as silk and dripping with condescension.

"Evelyn!" Covington called, the Southern drawl dripping from his tongue like honey over poison. "This little game of yours? It’s gettin’ old. I’ve got better things to do than haggle over this … quaint property of yours. A tee time at Augusta, for one, and I’d bet even their bunkers look more refined than your backyard.”

Evelyn clenched her fists, nails biting into her palms. Her gaze flicked to Bishop, who hadn’t moved. His body was tense, coiled like a spring. He mouthed, make him leave.

Covington’s tone darkened, the faux charm vanishing. “You’re a stubborn one, just like Malcolm Trent was. And we both know how that story ended, don’t we?”

Evelyn’s stomach churned, the mention of Malcolm hitting her like a punch to… the gut. Her voice broke, trembling but defiant. She spoke through the closed door. "What did you do to Malcolm?"

Covington’s eyes gleamed, stepping closer to the door as he casually adjusted his cuffs. " Poor man just couldn’t see the big picture. Tried to stand in my way, and well … sometimes people take a fall when they refuse to see reason. Maybe he should’ve come up for air instead of drowning in that well of his stubbornness."

The words hit Evelyn like a bucket of ice water. Malcolm’s fate had been no accident, and now Covington was standing here, making veiled threats like it was another business transaction.

Bishop’s grip on his gun tightened, but he didn’t move.

Covington’s smirk widened as two of his men flanked him, hands resting lazily on their holstered guns. “Now, why don’t we make this simple, Evelyn? Invite me in, and we’ll have ourselves a little chat. You know this holdout is pointless. You sign over the deed, and all this goes away. Easy as that. Otherwise …” He trailed off.

Evelyn’s heart raced, her eyes flicking to her daughter’s room. The air felt heavy, suffocating, but she couldn’t give in. She wouldn’t.

Her voice shook but held firm. "I’m not signing anything, Covington."

For a moment, Covington’s polished facade cracked, a flicker of rage flashing in his eyes before he composed himself. He stepped closer, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. "Who’ve you got in there with you, Evelyn? Someone helping you make these poor decisions?"

Evelyn didn’t flinch, but her heart pounded in her throat. Covington scanned the drawn curtains, suspicion blooming in his expression. His men shifted, their hands inching toward their weapons.

Before Covington could push further, a deafening crack split the sky. Lightning struck the old oak by the driveway, splitting the massive tree in two. A branch, thick and heavy, crashed down near the porch, sending a shower of sparks and debris into the air as it combusted into flames.

For a moment, the world froze. Covington’s men stared at the flaming tree limb, eyes wide.

The fire licked hungrily at the damp ground, smoke curling into the air. Rain-soaked grass slowed the fire’s spread, but the danger was palpable.

Covington barely blinked, his expression dark and menacing. “Proof,” he said, voice as cold as the storm overhead, “that accidents happen. Think on that before our next little chat.”

With a final, unsettling glance, Covington turned on his heel, his men scrambling to follow. Engines roared to life, the SUVs disappearing around the bend in the driveway.

Evelyn stood rooted in place, torn between the departing threat and the one in her living room. The sky cracked open. A blinding flash of lightning split the air, followed instantly by a deafening clap of thunder that rattled the windows. The strike hit close, too close.

Her gaze snapped toward the edge of the property where smoke curled into the damp morning air. Flames licked hungrily at the base of a tall pine, the surrounding brush igniting in a cascade of hissing and crackling. The acrid scent of burning wood filled her nose.

“Fire!” She stumbled back a step. She flung open the door, the heat of the blaze already radiating through the rain-cooled air.

The sky churned, a roiling mass of angry clouds, promising more than just rain. Hatch moved toward the Hartwell house. Tucking tight to the base of a tree, she was able to see into the home through a side window. In the slight gap of the window covering, Hatch spotted a young girl and a teenage boy. Both were bound and gagged in the living room. No sign of Bishop, but the restraints confirmed his presence. He was in there. Somewhere.

Recon shifted to tactical. She tightened her grip on the Glock. A sudden crack of lightning split the sky, illuminating the world brighter for a mere second. A deafening boom of thunder shook the ground beneath her feet. Hatch dropped low.

A massive oak outside the front of the house splintered, its limb crashing near the porch, sending sparks and flames dancing across the wet ground. Despite the rain from the night before, a fire ignited, spreading quickly through the dry debris.

The man standing in front of the Hartwell home didn’t notice Hatch tucked in the thicket nearby. "Proof that accidents can happen," The man in the white suit called back. " Think on that before our next little chat." Without waiting for a response, he disappeared into the lead SUV, engines revving as the vehicles peeled away.

Hatch's pulse quickened. Time to move.

Tuck drove the Tahoe up the driveway. As Hatch emerged from the wood line, Tuck sprang from the vehicle. He raised the rear door of the vehicle and appeared a split second later with a shovel. He ran straight for the fire, flinging wet mud onto the flames with desperate force. The rain had bought some time, but the fire still spread, creeping dangerously close to the house.

Hatch didn’t hesitate. The fire was a definite concern. But so was Bishop. “I’ll be back!” she called to Tuck as she sped past him, moving in a fast crouch toward the house. The closest point of entry was the front door.

She sprinted up the porch past Evelyn. “Stay down,” Hatch commanded in a low whisper before kicking the half-opened door wide.

She entered the small, single-story ranch, leading with her gun. Hatch followed the front sight as she sliced the pie, clearing the fatal funnel of the doorway. The two bound youths looked up in fear. Hatch focused on the potential threat as she stepped deeper inside.

She continued to track the sides of the room, visually clearing as much as possible. Silence. Except for the distant crackling of the fire and the soft whimpers emanating from the young girl. Hatch pushed past the image of the child who reminded her so much of her niece, Daphne.

The living room was clear. No sign of Bishop.

Hatch moved to a narrow hallway. She slowed her pace as she worked her way forward. The bedroom door on her left was ajar. She paused only for moment before shouldering her way inside. It was small. A child’s room. Clear.

The last room before the back door was closed. Hatch pressed herself to the wall. She carefully checked the knob. It was unlocked. She steadied herself.

Clearing rooms was a task best done in tandem with others. With Tuck busy with controlling the fire, she was left to go it alone. She counted down. Three, two, …

Hatch entered with the speed, surprise, and violence of action she’d developed over fifteen years of experience. Lightning flashed through the window at the back of the room, illuminating the interior. Clear.

She exited. Hatch opened the back door and scanned the thick woods, extending up the mountain behind the house. Bishop was gone.

Hatch wanted to continue her pursuit but knew better. He had the high ground. The tactical advantage would be his, and she didn’t plan on giving him the opportunity to capitalize on it.

She returned to the living room. Tucking her gun into her waistband, Hatch moved swiftly to help Evelyn free Chloe and Liam from their restraints.

Evelyn’s tears mixed with the rain streaming down her face as she swallowed Chloe in a tight embrace.

Tuck appeared in the doorway. His cheeks were smudged in ash. “Fire’s contained.”

“He’s gone.” Hatch gestured toward the back of the house. “At least everyone’s safe.”

Tuck made a beeline for his son. He pulled the teenager close. No words, just an unspoken relief passing between them, before the sheriff locked eyes with Hatch.

“He’s wounded. It’ll slow him down.” Hatch’s voice growled. “Which means we can gain some ground.”

“We best get to it then.”